"The Peep Show" by Hali F. Sofala-Jones

The neighbors across the path have seen me naked.All night long I find an excuse to walk by the windows

or pull back the sheer curtains and gaze out. Always a noisein the path below or a curious gnat buzzing around the wilting

flowers that rest on the radiator. I bought them fresha week ago, and the water has turned brown and the filth rises

and clings to the vase. I never pose for the strangersor flash the lights in Morse Code, never bringing attention to myself,

the body. I am only looking for a breeze after a hot shower.Or maybe presenting the body because it is cleaner now

more than any other time of day. The neighbors across the path have seen me naked but not really naked. What is the body

seen without clothing or covering but a flexible suit of skin— with all the same buttons and holes as the next?

I would peel back skin and sinew for the neighbors if I could. This is an act of intervention.

The neighbors think I’m crazy and close the blinds at dusk.Knock on my door, I say, and I will answer.

Hali F. Sofala-Jones is a Samoan-American writer and teacher living in Georgia. She recently returned to the Southeast after several years living in the Midwest while pursuing her MFA and PhD at the University of Wisconsin, Madison and the University of Nebraska, Lincoln, respectively. Her work can be found most recently in Nimrod Journal of Prose and Poetry, Blue Mesa Review, CALYX and online at The Missouri Review and Rogue Agent.